Questions

I recently wondered: what utility does awareness of the absurdity of ones own existence have for the continuation of ones life. I immediately thought of the phenomenon of the descended larynx, which allows us humans to articulate all manner of sounds while giving us a high change of death by choking. The sort of existential crisis, if might call it that, is akin to this risk of choking death. The awareness of absurdity is a harmful side effect of a the aparatus of understanding, which allows us to avoid becoming victims of our circumstances and manipulate complex situations in our favor. This realization enabled me to act in a favorable way with regard to the realization of the absurdity of my own existence: I stopped thinking.

The language that can be spoken of is not the eternal language

Early investigations into Kabbalah left me wondering: what is hidden inside a word? English words, while capable of manifesting complex structures through long strings of themselves, didn’t seem to hold much mystery. Chinese characters, on the other hand, seemed like windows into different worlds. Therefore, before my interest in philosophy turned me totally into a biologist, my interest in language turned me into a sinologist.
There was a pair of books that shaped my views considerably: Sex and Temperament by Margaret Mead, and The Labyrinth of Solitude by Octavio Paz. Margaret Mead showed me the dynamic interplay between societies, their geo-political circumstances, and the psychology of the people that constitute them. Paz showed me the beauty of language and its ability to contain the soul of a people and sing it forth. My theory at this time was largely based on Mead, Focault, Ginzburg (the historian not the poet), and Zen Buddhism.
As I delved deeper and deeper into sinology and the study of the Chinese classics, I became enamored both with equality of expressiveness of all natural languages, and the peculiarities of culture and language usage. It took a long time to get used to the idea that, when someone compliments me in mandarin, I should respond: “where? Where?” In my studies of linguistics, I was constantly annoyed by the emphasis placed on grammar. Why did this frustrate me?
In my communications class, we learned that 60% of conveyed meaning is non-verbal. Does non-verbal necessarily mean non-grammatical? No systematic theory of non-verbal communication has arisen because it is an extemporaneously generated physical/tonal expression of a unique semantic environment. There are, however, cultural guidelines that we all instinctively know about non-verbal communication. In China, the fixation on “rites” permeates nearly all of ancient philosophy. A culture where “every smile and bow” is timed perfectly represents a firmly structured grammar of non-verbal communication. Rites, however, are an aspect of Chinese high-society, and in most cultures, indeed, it is only in places where uniformity is necessary that adherence to such rules is a must. The rest of us (common folk) only follow basic cultural guidelines as we strut and slide our way toward mutual understanding.
Look at the Chinese word Qi:
Qi is translated into English in a notoriously nebulous way: energy. It also means “weather” or “anger” or “breath”. There’s a problem that occurs when this word is translated into English. Many English speakers are used to nouns like “energy” referring to a single thing like electricity or sound waves or crowd fervor. The problem with this is that the Chinese word also refers to circulation, the nervous system, the weather, sunlight, moods etc. Why a single word for all this? Well, when one of these things is affected, all the others respond. This is, of course, a philosophical interpretation of Qi which made its way into English through the appropriation of Chinese traditional medicine; otherwise, it simply means “angry,” or “weather” etc. The word Qi, taken in isolation, refers to a whole vein of existence. When used grammatically, however, it rests on a single meaning.
Then look at dialects: there’s no such thing as incorrect language. If you are a native speaker of a language, everything you say when you speak that language is correct. This does not mean, however, that someone will understand you. Grammar is the means by which words are structured to create meaning, and as such it is a specialized tool of communication in general. Words, however, are only the tip of the iceberg. The rest of communication will forever stay buried beneath the ocean, floating uncontrolled, unless submerged by etiquette, courtesy, and ritual, and thereby atrophied, its creative powers dissolved.
Social structure and linguistic structure are similar entities. They exist to facilitate social cohesion and interaction. These structures settle into our bodies, destroy our forests, pave our earth, house our brothers and sisters, give children the space to grow and express themselves, limit our wants and capabilities, and give purpose to our lives. The poetic spirit resists these things, breaks free of language into visual performance, restores nature or preserves it, decries purpose and wanders the land, looks past the words a person speaks and into their heart.
“The name that can be named is not the eternal name. As for the nameless: that is the beginning of heaven and earth.” –Dao De Jing

Li Style

The following text is Han Fu, a style of poetry popular during the Han dynasty. It is basically praising the elegance of Li style script, which is the transitional script between ancient and modern script. The origin of Li is the simplification of writing through changes in medium brought on by a shift in the demographic of writers from royal scribes to common scribes. This shift is correlated with a great increase in the amount of people writing. This poem is written after Li shu has become mainstream and ceased to be looked down as a corruption.

Cheng Gongsui: Li Style

Huangjie created writing
from the objects of his thoughts
he looked at those bird tracks
and the tracks became characters

How brilliantly writing manifested
the writings passing down
containing the way and virtue
encompassing the ten thousand things

Everyday writing and records
was the job of scribes and clerks
time changed and the craft was simplified
marking a distinction between old and new

Insect script was already complex
when cursive disguised it
but as for the golden mean
none of them fits like Li

The tools of li are like carpenters tools
simple and easy to use:

In following change and moving easily
there is also tension and relaxation
hold the brush, let go of the ink,
carefully guard the tip of the brush.

Brilliant and glowing, rising and pressing down
shape and style, lifting up and sinking down
connected like a flower to its fragrance
space opens up as characters spread out

Bright like the shining expanse of heaven
in luxuriant embroidery you will find this standard

You may lightly stroke
and gently raise the brush
or you may slowly press down
and rapidly arouse the brush
pulling horizontal, pulling vertical
left leads and right coils
long swells lead to lush strokes
and minute movements like hovering mist

This skill is difficult to transmit
those who are good are few
hand and heart must work as one
and the heart must know its purpose

With subtle movements of the fingers
and gentle rising of the wrist
grasp the white silk
dye it black with writing

The red bamboo shaft becomes lightning
rain falls and hail scatters
dots rest, flip over, and rise up
pulling down in peaceful domination

A great diverse web
unraveling all kinds of colors
that shine forth and then are veiled
in extraordinary smoke
how vast and great!
and how playful it is to write so intricately

This practice is patterned after the luxuriant way of the Zhou
and expresses the brilliance of Yu

Ba fen and seal script,
each has its own beauty and technique
divide white with flowing black
and it is like scattered chess pieces or stars in the sky

heads lift up and tails curl
vertical strokes reign in irregular strokes
this romance produces a style
like the careful stitching of a suit

Some styles are like coiled dragons roaming,
they wriggle and twist in the sky
and phoenixes soaring up above
about to fly away on strong wings

some are birds of prey about to strike
this style presses down with forceful strength
and then, like a fine steed
gallops away
freely
boldly
yet always on the road

If you look up and gaze at it from afar
its lush appearance is like high clouds and rising mist
wandering smoke continuous with clouds

If you look down and inspect it
its beauty is like a cool breeze on rushing water
and in the ripples patterns form

For cascading forms to manifest style
you must have a model and a standard
the shape and movement are hard to explain
so I roughly bring up the cardinal points.

Mencius on the vast and flood-like Qi

“敢问何谓浩然之气？”主

曰：“难言也。其为气也，至大至刚，以直养而无害，则塞于天地之间。其为气也，配义与道；无是，馁也。是集义所生者，非义袭而取之也。行有不慊于心，则馁矣。我故曰，告子未尝知义，以其外之也。必有事焉，而勿正，心勿忘，勿助长也。”

I venture to ask: what is it that you call "the vast and flood-like Qi"?

Mencius: It's hard to say. As for it becoming breath, this is the greatest and hardest thing. If it is nourished without harm, then it will fill the space between heaven and earth. In becoming breath, it is equal to righteousness and the Dao, but without it one is starved of goodness. This Qi is the gathered righteousness of all living things, it is not come across by luck and snatched away. If you act with regrets in your heart, you will be starved of goodness. This is why I say Gaozi has never known righteousness: he takes this Qi to be external. You must work for it, but cannot correct it, you must never forget it, but you cannot help it grow. -Trns JHE

This passage is one of my favorites. It is so abstract that it took me months to translate, and only with the help of professor Schneider was I able to make sense of it. It seems as though the flood-like Qi is deeply connected with righteousness: it exists in the point where one's goodness transcends the self and individual accomplishments and unites with the goodness of all life. In doing this the flood-like Qi must become your Qi or life-breath. Otherwise, it withers and one is devoid of all goodness. This qi seems to be like a flower whose seed is in yourself: in being pure of heart and deed, this seed sprouts and will eventually blossom, filling the whole world with its beauty. If you are insincere and hypocritical, the seed will dry up and your soul will lay fallow.

Cai Yong "The Nine Techniques"

九势 蔡邕

夫书肇于自然，自然既立，阴阳生焉；阴阳既生，形势出矣。藏头护尾，力在字中，下笔用力，肌肤之丽。故曰：势莱不可止，势去不可遏，惟笔软则奇怪生焉。凡落笔结字，上皆覆下，下以承上，使其形势递相映带，无使势背。转笔，宜左右回顾，无使节目孤露。藏锋，点画出入之迹，欲左先右，至回左亦尔。藏头，圆笔属纸，今笔心常在点画中行。护尾，画点势尽，力收之。疾势，出于啄磔之中，又在竖笔紧 之内。掠笔，在于趱锋峻 用之。涩势，在于紧 战行之法。横鳞，竖勒之规。此名九势，得之虽无师授，亦能妙合古人，须墨功多，即造妙境耳。

As for the emergence of writing from nature: when nature was already established, yin and yang were born from it. When yin and yang were complete, form and technique emerged. Hiding the head and protecting the tail, keeping strength in the center of the character, using strength when bringing the brush down, this is how flesh and muscle are made beautiful. Therefore I say that when these techniques begin, they cannot be stopped, and when these techniques go, they cannot be held back, and only when the brush is soft may the unique and wonderful be born of it.

1.) When writing characters the upper must contain the lower, and the lower must support the upper, this causes the form and technique to be mutually carried along and reflected, without any contention between them.

2.) When turning the brush, the correct left movement will return to the right and vice versa. In this way the strokes and empty spaces in the characters will seem integrated.

3.) Hid the tip of your brush: when entering a dot, if you desire to go left you must first go right. When leaving a dot one must likewise return to the left.

4.) When hiding the head, use the round brush technique: keep the tip of your brush in the center of the stroke.

5.) When protecting the tail, the ends of strokes and dots should properly contain their strength.

6.) The swift technique emerges from downward sweeping strokes, and also from keeping vertical leaps tight.

7.) When picking up the brush, use a quick vertical motion.

8.) The rough technique is in moving with the intensity of a horse in battle.

9.) Keep vertical and horizontal strokes solidly connected.

This is called the nine techniques. Obtain these techniques even if there is no master to instruct you, and you can be excellent like the people of ancient times. Your accomplishments with brush and ink must be numerous: it is precisely creation that is wonderful and that is all.

The Owl Bar

It was a long day at the government accountability office. My mind was dull from reading reports and editing proposals. I continually worried, but without any depth or detail, about the town meeting that was to take place tomorrow. During the meeting I was to present on the protection of wetlands, an issue that had come to the fore since representatives of Mahl Wert came to town with their development plan.

I placed the banana peel in the compost bin, poured a glass of water, and took my glass and bowl of yogurt to the dinner table. My biggest flaw was a love of breakfast, causing much teasing by my co-workers when I ate, for example, raisin bran for lunch. After I finished my dinner I felt energized, so I fetched my outline for tomorrows talk and began to go over key points.

Just then a movement in the corner of my eye caused me to look at the front door. There was a great white shape standing there, but the refection of the kitchen on the glass obscured it so that I could not make out exactly what it was. It tapped on the glass. More curious than frightened, I got up from the table, walked to the door, and pulled it all the way open.

A great white owl stood in front of me, at least five feet tall, its enormous eyes staring right at me. I stood silent for a moment, observing this great creature, until it lifted a single wing and two small acorn caps fell out. I picked them up and inspected them. The center of each cap was carved intricately in a network of tunnels as if by tiny worms. I looked at the owl inquisitively and it shook its ears vigorously.

Going with my intuition, I put the acorn caps into my ears. All of a sudden the night chorus was transformed. The chirping of frogs and insects became a din of chatting, courting, singing and fighting.

“Would you like to get a drink with me Alex?” Said the Owl.

This was not at all what I expected but, flattered, I decided to go along with the Owl’s invitation.

“Yes, sir…”

“Owaynu.”

“Sir Owaynu, I would be delighted.”

Owaynu Turned around, I put my arms around his neck, and off we flew into the night sky. At first I lifted my head to watch my house slip away behind me and the cars growing smaller beneath me, but the wind was cold so I pressed my face into Owaynu’s soft feathers. His flight was so smooth and soundless that soon I fell asleep.

“Wake up! We are almost there!” Cried Owaynu.

I opened my eyes, and for a moment I forgot where I was and nearly fell off Owaynu’s back with fright. We were weaving between giant hemlocks and beech trees, and I saw as we rose above the canopy that we were on top of a large hill. We settled down on a balcony of woven branches.

What I perceived in front of me is hard to describe, it was similar to a tree house, but instead of materials being nested in the trees to form a structure, it appeared as though the very trunks and branches had grown into the shape of a home.

“This is a very high-class bar,” said Owanayu, “it was made over hundreds of years by slowly guiding and pruning the trees.”

There was a large cat sitting by the entrance who was staring at me not too nicely.

“Don’t worry about him,” said Owanyu, “it’s his job to be suspicious.”

The inside of the place looked somewhat like a log cabin, with a bar in the back and small irregular shaped tables. There were a few owls in the place, another cat, and a man in a military uniform drinking alone. Owanyu ordered us some drinks and we sat down at a table together.

“So, where exactly are we?” I asked, not fully expecting an answer.

“A military reservation.” Replied Owanyu. “When the country started to be over-developed, owls needed a safe place to go, so we made a deal with the military. These bars are off limits to most people except for a few military men, but even they stay clear for the most part.”

“So why did you invite me here tonight?” I asked

“Because we owls respect what you do. In return for these bars, we give the military information about certain individuals. For some reason they have you listed as a threat, but I know, for I was assigned to spy on you, about your business and how you protect the environment.”

“Well, I’m glad someone pays attention to my work.”

I turned my head to see the ghostly eyes of a barn owl staring at me from across the room. Just then our drinks arrived, dark reddish-brown drinks with little carbonation. I took a sip, it was an earthy lambic with a hint of tartness.

“Mmm, this is delicious!” I say

“Indeed,” replied Owanyu, “all the drinks here are made with wild ingredients.”

We sat there for a good hour, drinking and talking about people Owanyu had spied on. He had a pretty good grasp on human nature, but I could tell it was learned and not native: people-watching was merely his job. Nevertheless his views had the profundity and clarity of an outside perspective.

“This bar is closing soon, but I know another one that’s open all night if you’d like.” Said Owanyu.

Still flattered by my unexpected companion, and now a little tipsy, I heartily approved.

As I wrapped my arms around Owanyu’s neck a second time, I thought of something: “Isn’t it dangerous to fly after drinking?” I asked.

Owanyu laughed and replied: “No, flight is very much second nature to me by now.”

We swooped down out of the tree-bar, flew down the hill and into a deep crevice. Owanyu settled on a rock outcropping on the side of a sheer cliff. I stood in front of a great cave where owls, wolves, and raccoons were drinking and singing merrily. When they saw me the whole bar went silent.

“Why do you bring an earth-choker here Owanyu?” Snarled a wolf.

“He may be human but he is also an environmentalist,” replied the owl. “He is currently trying to save the Uru-Klonger wetlands from being developed.”

The wolf looked at me in disbelief.

“You’re trying to stop development?” He asked.

“Yes, I understand that many rare species make their home in those wetlands, and that, furthermore, they act as a conduit between… um… the adjacent woods, that allows migrating species safe passage.” I replied

“You know those species are rare only because your species has wiped them out!” The wolf said.

“Yes, I know that.”

The wolf looked at me for a moment, walked to the back of the bar, and returned with a cup of lambic.

“Drink up buddy.” He said, handing me the cup. I drank long into the night, listening to the songs of the wolf. I met another owl, named Uoduao, a ragged looking great horned owl who spoke vaguely about the moon. Owanyu explained that Uoduao was not used to talking to humans, which is what makes his speech so hard to understand.

The next day I awoke with a slight headache. Resting on my nightstand were two acorn caps, the insides carved into a network of tunnels as if by ravenous mites. These two tokens are the greatest, and only gift, I have received for attempting to preserve my hometowns forests.

Two sensory poems

Tuesday

quickly descending the wet concrete steps
a family of crows emerges noisily from the grass
my foot in a shallow puddle goes pish
earthworms stranded on the sidewalk


Walking quickly

as I drink coffee I get hot
looking at you makes me hot
it is hot inside but cold outside
inside my body is hot
if I were cut open I'd steam
like my hot words in the cool air
as we walk quickly
throught the light rain

Image and Form, East and West

Cross genre writing often utilizes a form which incorporates poetry, graphic arrangement, and other types of writing (i.e. stream of consciousness or found text). In considering the status of cross-genre writing in comparison to more “traditional” poetry, I became curious about the effect of manipulating the content of poetry with a particular form. This form might be a physical distribution of words on a page, a systematic breakage of continuity relative to formal attributes (i.e. a physical boundary between types of writing), or other such manipulations, which in its application to poetry alone is referred to as concrete poetry.
This curiosity led me forward to an even subtler distinction than that of form and content: that of the relationship between abstract and imagistic language. There appeared to me a very definite relationship between an emphasis on form and the dominance of abstract language or ideas. Being left handed, this emphasis disconcerted me and has driven me to do the following analysis of the image verses form.
This search initially led me to imagistic poetry. Such poems as “everything depends on a red wheelbarrow…” seemed to offer the most promising example. But poetry like this always contains some abstract element that calls into question the ontological status of the image. The statement “everything depends on…” is a judgment that moves the reader to wonder about the wheelbarrow and what else it might symbolize, for its status as the absolute fulcrum is not only ambiguous but fantastic.
Likewise, in the poem by Ryokan: “Once we start to bounce a ball, / We will only be led on to, / Counting: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, / eight, nine, ten, / Only to start again—from the beginning!” We may immediately abstract the idea of cyclical phases and repetition, of seasons that endlessly lead into one another without our control.
Poetry almost always contains either a transition that sets up a relationship, or a judgment/explanation that qualifies the status of an image. This haiku by Issa is an excellent example of the former strategy: “snow melts / and the village floods / with children”. The image of a flood has a quality that is both impressive to imagine, and useful for describing the manner in which children come out in good weather. In a photograph subjects may be juxtaposed spatially, but in haiku a more intimate relationship may be set up.
In a particularly masterful poem by ryokan, the image is only suggested: “Maybe some rain is pattering; / Maybe the trees in the ravine are whispering / Or it may be the maple leaves scattering / In a gale at midnight.” The image of Ryokan lying awake at night listening to a sound is suggested by the images that the sound calls to his mind. An inexplicit image or state of affairs is rendered through the use of descriptive images.
It seems there are two kinds of imagistic poems: ones that give an image and a judgment that opens the image up to interpretation, and ones that through image alone describe the world. Because of its brevity, a poem is able to reduce its contents to basic elements of information, elements chosen because they depict either the most inclusive subject or the most specific.
Chinese poetry provides an interesting example of poems that utilize only images. Consider the following poem by Wang Wei:

Passing by the temple of accumulated fragrance

I am not sure where it is,
the temple of accumulated fragrance.
A few miles and I enter
the cloudy mountain peaks.
There is no path for men
among the ancient trees,
and where is the bell
that rings from deep in the mountains?
I hear a gurgling spring on a steep cliff
as the sun becomes cold
on the green pines.
Around dusk I find a clear pool
in a remote place in the woods.
I meditate, trying to control my thoughts.
-Trns JHE

This poem is about an evening excursion into the mountains in search of a temple Wang Wei has only heard of, but has never been to. The poem consists of entire concrete imagery, except for the statement of lack of knowledge in the first line (bu zhi xiang ji si). The last line, which in English I have rendered with the abstract noun “thoughts” in chinese is actually a concrete metaphor: “[trying to] control poisonous dragons”.
Lets take a look at another poem by Wang Wei and observe the similarities.

Deer thicket

No one is seen on the empty mountain,
but I can hear the sound of talking.
Sunset light enters the deep forest
and illuminates green moss as it rises.
-Trns JHE

In the beginning of this poem we see a common theme. The human element exists, but it is somewhere else, somewhere out of sight. Wang Wei mentions the temple, but he never arrives there. Indeed he never explicitly says that he is trying to get there. Likewise with the temple bell and the sounds of talking in the mountain: both are sounds that reach Wang Wei from an unknown source. This seems very similar to the poem mentioned above about listening to a sound at night.
Perhaps the red wheelbarrow poem, if it were written in Chinese, would look like this:

空庭中独然
红独轮车坐

Alone in the empty courtyard
Sits the red wheelbarrow

One thing that I notice about the Wang Wei is that the poems have almost no formal experimentation. Each poem is arranged in sets of five character lines. Deer park is four five character lines, and passing by is eight. This leads me to believe that there is in fact some correlation between concrete imagery and simplicity of form.
When a writer consciously decides to be creative with the form of his writing, oftentimes this form becomes the focal point of the poem and the meaning of the words as a result becomes abstract. In Wang Wei’s poetry, the focal point is contained in the landscape of the imagery of the poem. As a result, the form stays basic while the meaning of the words represents physical contour, color, and sound.
As a last note, because I have neglected to properly represent concrete poetry and instead have focused on imagistic poetry, I will provide the following link:
http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/Images/morgan.jpg

This poem by Edward Morgan is fantastic. It portrays, using only three words, not only the structure of archives, but also the manner in which information disintegrates through time. One can immediately apprehend the layering of information, and, if one studies history, connect this poem to ones own life and experiences. I cannot tell you how many times I have gone to find the origin of something and instead found a tiny fragment of a generation too far gone to have left anything substantial.

Smoke and Seashells

Seashells and cardboard
boxes, the old worker
picking grapes, mines full of smoke.

Birds dive into the sea, rolling
down thermals, and it crumbles into nothing.

Our goal is creation, our destiny
may be the honey and the milk.
Replenish my thirst with your stare
and take a word from my throat.

On the edge the land is
constantly crumbling,
cascading in the cold sea.
I pick at the sand
in search of little seashells.
I like the oval ones that
shine all copper in the sun.

They stole it, the black
letters, black caps and silver
badges, towers and bridges
on the skyline. Smoke coming
out of the window where
a woman in a white apron leans out,

to catch the letter on the breeze,
the letter from her lover, gone
to Louisiana last year, that magic
letter written on metal foil
that shines all copper in the sun.

Poems about Work

Remove the Ivy from the wall

Talking with my half-Chinese friend
about Sanskrit and Latin, I wonder
why my hands are cold.
A dry corn muffin,
I wet each mouthful
with a shot of hot, bitter coffee.

In the graveyard
I scrape lichen off granite
with my index finger.
Wind comes off the ocean
Over the salt marsh

An audience of cedars and headstones,
I clench the rubber handles
of the clippers, cut the vine.

Someday the ocean will cover this land.
I hope by then I am dead.
drifting with uprooted cedars
in the great wave.

-

Roofing

a steel nail into tar
forms a protective seal
tipping to adjust to the pitch
i put down my hammer
to remove an inchworm from my wrist

the coarse roof spreads out beneath me
all day I build this barrier
till my skin is burned
covered with a layer of dirt
till my muscles barely hold me up

a maple reaches high above us
shielding us
blocking the hot fury
of the celestial Father

always setting up a barrier
a wall to keep out thieves
a gas globe keeps out
clear chaos

a thin
film covering
organelles of cells

Poems about Love and Beauty

Looking past the elbows of the rhododendron,
into the grove of screaming daffodils,
the green in her eyes disappeared,
melted like sand into water.

I wonder if they remember the last time?
Respond only if you really care, she said.
For the rest of my life I spoke
only when necessary.

If I climbed that tree and fell
onto the frozen pond,
the sound would slow time.
And cracks would crawl
from the impact,
searching the white desert for imperfections.

When I lay with you, I saw
every surrounding space.
Along the edge,
the yellow starlets:
pond grasses that flower when exposed.

Remember when we met?
The sky a glad sapphire that swallowed all doubt.

-

Coming and Going

His hair looked joyful, or was it her?
I am embraced by the household sun,
remove my jacket, accept a glass of shiraz.
Silver mist sticks to the windows.

Sniffling grape, a wasp evaluates
my fingers, cooling on the glass.
A stranger smiles, as curious as I
about what a face hides.

Like a fresh strawberry, the lilac liquid
Shakes my tongue. The light is yellow
on white wall, orange on brown couch.
I dare say we all forget everything.

Around eleven we looked at a nature book.
A crystal box with organs of fractal geometry
The flagellated organism jerking through glades
of eel grass gliding like green worms.

I hold the doorknob, release the faces.
The ocean wind bites my face
The blue moon begins to sink. I follow it
down a path cut through the salt marsh.

Poems about Dark and Cold

out of the arctic and
still containing the arctic
carrying a little cold around

in our heads pumpkin filling
to feed all the limbs
the cold blue language of salt
racing around in a circle
immutable like cuneiform

i carve my thoughts into rough blocks
and let them bake in the sun
but the drying and cracking
agitates me from a distance
and walking, always walking
i hear it falling apart
as I walk north toward the arctic
freezing seas and dragonsneck boatsmen

picking up seed pods and throwing
dust words into the air
i wish I could place myself in all life
but instead I place its soft limbs into my mouth
grinding and dissolving the bodies
of smaller animals to keep the sun catcher
glowing inside me, the chemical motor
goaded out of chaos from the milky seas
until all becomes glacier and blue ice language

-

Threshold of Concentration

The house is decorated in dark
solid colors. The light lies to me:
turns my whole into shivering bits.
I must be racing against myself.

The manifold surfaces of the jelly
Shine in the lamp light. I work slowly
To avoid getting the jelly on my papers.
In the process, I forget my possessions.

The sitting elephant smiles simply
from the corner. Paper clips scatter the
periphery of darkness. The copper arm
of the globe shines in the moonlight

I know what is out the window:
lonely towers dot the clearings
in the hills. They relay messages
like spaces between cells

With distance, all images are taken
up into the god of shadows, for
this reason I am afraid to go to the kitchen.
It is bright, but the hallway is full

of his dreams, the whites and browns
of the kitchen lasting, blazing out the
real darkness, like the boy I knew who
hung himself imitating Houdini.

Review of Jarrod Fowler

On Jarrod Fowler’s “On Botanic and Rhythmic Structures” and “Translation as Rhythm”


“On Botanic and Rhythmic Structures” contains a number of different elements; I will try to address each in isolation. The packaging, as with all of Jarrods’ pieces, is straightforward yet somewhat confusing. The front contains a number of colorful boxes each with an illustration and description of the organisms featured on the disc. The light-beige insert on which this is printed complements the green and orange of the boxes very well. The back of the insert contains a statement of method and a list of the species of plants used in each track along with their positioning in the stereo field. This gives the overall impression of a catalog, and one initially wonders why this package contains a CD and not a field guide. That is because the CD is, in a sense, a translation of a field guide into a rhythmic system. The organisms featured on the cover and listed on the back are in fact the instruments used to create the music on the disc.
This brings us to the music contained therein. OBRS is essentially a percussion experiment/exploration utilizing the rhythmic action of environmental objects as a template. So, while the layout is ambient, the sound is rigidly percussive, jumping from silence to plant-texture-sound abruptly and then dropping off again. It is hard to tire of or learn the tracks because environmental rhythms are non-repetitive. Furthermore, each plant texture is very detailed, and as one only gets a fraction of a second to hear them, it is hard to fully take in every sound. This brings me to the first paradox of OBRS: it is structurally minimal, yet nearly impossible to digest fully. One might say it is macroscopically minimal while being microscopically (in rhythmic nuance and sonic-texture) maximal.
The second paradox of OBRS has to do with the musical status of the work. As a music producer, I understand that the context of music defines musical structure, and that context is indefinitely malleable. Jarrod has manipulated the context of his music, taking it away from the social realm, and has appropriated instead the catalogue of organisms represented by a field guide. This is similar to hip-hop where producers sample from other contexts (Motown, Jazz, or even Classical music) and reconstitute the material in a totally new context. Instead of sampling from a musical context, however, Jarrod has gone into the world and taken a non-musical object and translated it into a musical object. I believe that, while to many people OBRS may seem inaccessible, this is because they don’t realize that the elements composing OBRS are common elements of the music that they listen to on a regular basis. Even the abrupt nature of the soundscape can be compared to the variations and changes that punctuate classical music, only in OBRS the background to change is not melody but the listener’s own aural environment.

“Translation as Rhythm” is perhaps more dynamic and more challenging than OBRS. To begin again with the packaging, TAR is one of the most visually edible of Jarrod’s works. The two colors that dominate are white and a brownish yellow (I will refer to this latter color as huang because there is no English word for it as far as I know). I believe Jarrod chose white intentionally to play off the white of the plastic CD tray, an element often absent from his releases, which often dwell in clear plastic sleeves. There are four main outer surfaces to the packaging: the front cover is white with huang lettering and contains the title of the work above a block of numbers representing a rhythmic translation. When open, the left inner cover is solid Huang. The CD tray is white and contains a huang CD with the word rhythm in white lettering, with the letters rearranged in all possible combinations. The back cover is an inversion of the front, i.e. solid huang with a block of white numbers, a continuation of the rhythmic translation featured on the front. The front and back covers are inversions of each other, while the inside plays off the solid square of the insert with the circle of the CD, which is in turn delineated by the rows and columns of the word rhythm. In short, Jarrod has covered every inch of the CD packaging with manifestations of the concept, translation as rhythm, at the same time keeping it aesthetically pleasing.
The inside of the booklet contains, for each track, a text and/or graphic supplement, as well as an explanation of what is being translated, how it is being translated, and a description of the text/graphic supplement. Jarrod is being very generous to the listener here, but really he has to be. The nature of TAR is very unusual, and one must look at the supplement and read the explanation before and during the listening experience in order to understand what is going on. Again Jarrod’s work is very straightforward but also very confusing if one expects instant revelation without effort.
As for the listening experience, I found it very challenging but also very humorous. I didn’t expect to, but I laughed a lot while listening through the CD. Wittgenstein becomes a “decelerating series of clicks,” which I’m sure he would have loved, and James Whitehead’s “digital translation of unedited data” becomes pure noise, a generous “fuck you” to romantic art. I found the use of text-to-speech to be highly ironic, yet fitting, and I had fun on track four trying to pay attention to both left and right voices as they talked about one another. Track seven is a soothing atmospheric collection of field recordings that exist as a translation of locations on a map. After listening to the clicks, computer voices and static of the earlier tracks, the peaceful sublimity of track seven is a welcome experience, and adds a very open, spatial and concrete element to the concept of TAR. The last track is a text-to-speech summary of the contents of the CD, which declares that it “cannot logically exist as a translation of itself.” This reminds me of the 11th dimension theory: we cannot conceive of a dimension that would encompass the 11th because it contains every possible manifestation of every possible universe.
The question that TAR raises, whether the organization of qualitative transformations is a rhythmic act or sets off a series of rhythmic occurrences, is an interesting one and in truth cannot fully be addressed by language.